Liars' Legacy by Taylor Stevens

Author:Taylor Stevens
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2019-10-27T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 22

JACK

THE ROOM OPENED TO A NARROW HALL THAT DEAD-ENDED LEFT AND forced foot traffic right. Jack followed the man in the suit, squeezing between sentries stationed at the door, and the suit man’s bodyguard entourage in turn followed him.

They were a different type, these bodyguards, different from the gumshoes who’d staked out positions at the Savoy in Berlin, different again from the psychos who’d run the snatch-and-grab in Republic Square. They were the type who missed nothing while ignoring everything, slow to engage, because they’d earned their composure, the type Clare would have sent if control truly mattered.

The hall led to an overlarge opening lit by shoddily hung fluorescent tubes, a hub of sorts, with no clear exit, no windows, no obvious doors, but from which several halls branched off. The man took a hard left into the nearest hall, which widened out into several steps that led down to a cavernous room supported by concrete pillars. What might have been a warehouse receiving area in a former life was bare and empty except for the ridiculous juxtaposition of a living room set up in the nearest corner—sofas and tables and wall art against an industrial landscape—as if someone had walked into a furniture showroom, drawn a square around an ensemble, and had the whole thing moved exactly as is, right down to the rugs, vases, and lamps.

The obvious difference was the bottle of Beluga Noble at the table’s center, and the zakuski spread and, less obvious, the diplomatic pouch on the sofa seat, like an ugly stain on the soft blue palette. The man in the suit motioned for Jack to take the oversize chair, as if this was a friendly social event and there weren’t bodyguards posted on the steps, blocking the only way out. “Please,” he said. “Please, sit.”

Jack eyed the plates filled with drinking food and then the bottle.

Whatever this man wasn’t, he was Russian, and Russian drinking culture was consistent and homogenous, and in Russian drinking culture, vodka wasn’t something drunk alone or as an everyday thing, like wine with meals. Vodka needed an occasion, even if an occasion required creative invention. The bottle was never left unfinished, and he was parched and thirsty, his stomach empty, and there wasn’t another soul or sound in this whole damn building. It was a lot of vodka.

“Sit,” the man said again.

Jack did as he was told.

The suit took a seat within reach of the black-blotch pouch.

He picked up the bottle, poured vodka into two small tumblers, handed one to Jack, lifted his glass, and said, “Za vstrechu.”

To our meeting.

Vodka required an occasion, and meeting was just the first of them.

Jack mimicked the raised glass.

“Za something, something,” he said.

The suit exhaled loud and obvious and tipped the liquor down his throat. He followed the vodka with a pickled green tomato.

Jack eyed the tumbler.

Drinking culture said nothing else happened until everyone at the table had emptied their glass, but that was Russian culture, and he wasn’t Russian.

The man said, “Drink.

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